


quiz show tango (he had it coming)

by thunderylee



Category: The Quiz Show (Japan TV)
Genre: Angst, Bloodplay, Dubious Consent, Knifeplay, M/M, PTSD, Rough Sex, borderline psychotic compulsions, spoilers for the entirety of season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:02:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22382284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thunderylee/pseuds/thunderylee
Summary: Just because he had forgiven Honma doesn’t mean he didn’t want to hurt him.
Relationships: Honma Toshio/Kamiyama Satoru
Comments: 6
Kudos: 5
Collections: Je-united Exchange 2020





	quiz show tango (he had it coming)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [naminami973](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naminami973/gifts).



> thanks for giving me an excuse to rewatch this drama and enjoy sho's ~~ass~~ dream chance dance all over again.

Ten years later, Kamiyama still gets headaches.

They’re tolerable, for the most part. A product of PTSD, his doctor had told him. After years of medication and therapy, he still gets a sharp pain in his brain whenever he remembers Honma or the events surrounding Misaki’s death—including his last season hosting The Quiz Show.

Somehow, the bright lights of the stage make it better. When he’s in his role as MC Kamiyama, he forgets about everything except entertaining the audience. That was the one good thing that came out of his problematic past—his ability to perform.

He’s still on TV, hosting another kind of trivia show that purposely asks impossible questions for comedic value, and he’s content with that. He’s taken up hobbies that include a lot of socialization to keep his mind from wandering. He even had a family for a while, before his ex-wife had packed up their daughter and moved in with someone who didn’t keep his past hidden from her.

It turns out that other people don’t like to be used at catalysts for happy endings.

To say that Kamiyama Satoru is lonely would be an understatement. He _yearns_ for affection, the kind of intimacy he can only have with someone with whom he will share _all_ of himself, but he doesn’t want to remember. He _can’t_ remember.

Remembering not only brings back the headaches, but also the bad thoughts.

For the longest time, it was about revenge. For Misaki, and for himself. His therapist told him that was normal, that he shouldn’t be concerned about his fantasies of suffocating Honma or shoving _him_ off of a roof. It was his mind’s way of healing from trauma, she said. As long as they stayed fantasies and not compulsions, he would be okay.

Just because he had forgiven Honma doesn’t mean he didn’t want to hurt him.

Then, after his family broke apart, the thoughts turned obscene. Kamiyama got sexual gratification from stabbing Honma over and over again, fisting himself off in the shower to thoughts of Honma’s blood running down his arm. Tasting Honma’s life on his tongue, finding solace in taking a life he’s saved twice before.

These are the thoughts that terrify him. He would never hurt anyone—at least, he thinks he wouldn’t. It’s only Honma who brings out this side of him, and only in his head. They had parted ways that day and haven’t crossed paths since.

Honma is still in the business. Working behind the scenes, calling the shots, making his productions interesting in his own way. Kamiyama doesn’t know what TV station he works for or what shows he directs, and he doesn’t want to. He can only imagine how much his head will hurt if he sees him again.

Which is why when he _does_ see him again, he doesn’t really believe it. They’re walking toward each other in a park, and Honma doesn’t notice him at all. But Kamiyama stops dead in his tracks, because he’d recognize that face _anywhere_.

The years have been good to Honma. They’re almost forty now, grown men who have lived completely separate lives, and yet Kamiyama feels a pull toward him. He supposes it’s natural to have a strong feeling toward someone you have known since kindergarten.

But it doesn’t stay a feeling, particularly when Honma walks right by him without even glancing his way. Kamiyama turns around to watch him walk away, then follows without a thought. He stays a safe distance behind, even when they leave the park and continue down a secluded street.

This must be what a compulsion feels like.

Kamiyama doesn’t quite know what he’s doing, nor what’s going to happen when they get wherever Honma is going. All of his pain and suffering have been because of Honma. Maybe if he makes Honma suffer in return, everything will be okay. The balance of the world will be restored, and Kamiyama can go on with his life in _peace_.

Honma disappears into an apartment building, and Kamiyama frowns. The neighbors would definitely hear him screaming. Unless Kamiyama gags him.

He can’t leave now. He’s already come this far, and not just tonight. He notices someone else entering the building and quickly slips in behind them, bowing his head politely as he pretends to check his mail like he’s just another tenant. Really, he’s checking for Honma’s name to see which apartment is his.

When he finds it, an inexplicable warmth spreads throughout his entire body. He can’t tell if it’s excitement or rage, but it doesn’t matter. Either way, he’s going to walk up to Honma’s front door and invite himself inside, then act upon his compulsion so that it will _finally_ go away and he can have his closure.

This ends tonight.

His courage boils with each step toward the door, where he knocks and waits for Honma to see him through the peephole.

A small pang of anxiety hits him at the possibility that Honma might not open the door, but before he can process it, the door swings wide open and that face from his past is breaking into a grin that Kamiyama doesn’t recognize.

“Kamiyama!” Honma exclaims, reaching out to clap Kamiyama on the shoulder; Kamiyama jumps. “What are you doing here?”

“I saw you in the park and followed you home,” Kamiyama answers automatically, but Honma’s expression doesn’t change. “Can I come inside?”

“Of course!” Honma says brightly, quickly ushering Kamiyama across the threshold. “Please excuse the mess. I wasn’t expecting company.”

“It’s fine,” Kamiyama says politely, looking around to find a scatter of trash amongst the sparse furniture. “Did you just move in?”

“No, I’ve been here for a few years.” Honma rushes to pick up and retreats to the kitchen, where he starts to make tea. “Not much into decorating. I’m hardly ever home anyway.”

“Lucky I caught you,” Kamiyama says, and Honma laughs. “You look like you’re doing well.”

Honma returns in time for Kamiyama to see his solemn smile. “I have good days and bad days. I still see things backwards, but I think my memories are intact. For now.”

Ordinarily, Kamiyama would pry at that vague statement, but right now he doesn’t care about Honma’s well-being.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he blurts out.

That has Honma’s eyebrows rising. “Oh, yeah? I heard you got married, but it didn’t work out. Are you into men, then?”

It’s asked in such a casual tone that he could have been questioning the weather or what Kamiyama had to eat for dinner, but Kamiyama doesn’t have an answer for him.

“I want to forget, but I can’t,” he says instead. “All I can do is remember, and it hurts.”

Honma nods as he sits down across from Kamiyama. “I am so sorry for what I did to you back then. I don’t even know that person anymore.”

“I didn’t come here for your apologies,” Kamiyama says evenly, and Honma nods again. “I came here to get rid of it.”

“Get rid of what, me?” Honma gives a short laugh. “Are you going to kill me?”

“No,” Kamiyama answers solidly. “Because I’m better than you.”

Honma starts to lean back in his chair, but then the kettle goes off and he jumps up to tend to it. The last thing Kamiyama wants is tea, but he patiently waits for Honma to serve them both and takes a sip out of politeness.

“I want to hurt you,” Kamiyama says, the pleasure already rising within him at speaking the words out loud. “I want to _make_ you hurt. I want you to feel _everything_ you made me feel back then—the fear and uncertainty and _betrayal_. I want to lock you in a room and shove you around and—”

He cuts himself off as he starts to become aroused from his own words, hanging his head to keep his composure. This isn’t about sex. He’s not attracted to Honma, at least he doesn’t think he is. What’s turning him on is inflicting pain upon Honma, and at this point he doesn’t know which one is worse.

“And fuck me?” Honma finishes for him, so calmly that Kamiyama lifts his eyes despite his better judgment. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Kamiyama squawks out in reply. “I just said that I want to _hurt_ you—”

“I heard what you said,” Honma interrupts him. “Would you rather I don’t consent? I can struggle, if that’s what gets you off.”

“How are you so calm about this?!” Kamiyama demands.

“I’ve had a long time to think about how to repent for my actions back then,” Honma explains. “This will be closure for me too.”

Kamiyama takes a deep breath and narrows his eyes. “I want to cut you. Make you bleed. Spill the life that exists because of me.”

_Now_ Honma’s expression changes, and Kamiyama sees the smirk Honma would get when he approached Kamiyama in his cell back then. Kamiyama has a flashback of being grabbed by the collar, looked down upon by his captor and mindfucked to believe whatever Honma thought was his reality.

“Did you bring a knife?” is all Honma asks.

Distracted, Kamiyama just shakes his head, and Honma disappears into the kitchen once again. Kamiyama hears a drawer open, then Honma returns with a pocket knife, already flipped open.

“This one would be best, I think,” Honma says, turning it around to offer it to Kamiyama by the handle. “Small enough to cut, but not too deeply. If you aren’t aiming to kill me, you probably don’t want to puncture any of my organs. Have you done this before?”

Shaking his head again, Kamiyama starts to wonder exactly which one of them is in control here. “I just have the thoughts in my head.”

Honma hums noncommittally and retreats down the hallway, leaving Kamiyama holding a pocket knife in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. What a sight he must be right now, his face completely slack-jawed while he blinks a few times to clear the disturbing ( _arousing_ ) images from his eyes.

“Okay,” Honma says, returning from the back room with a clap of his hands. “I’ve covered my bed with towels and set out everything we might need. Unless you’ve changed your mind, we can get started whenever you’re ready.”

A force beyond Kamiyama’s own cognition brings him to his feet, the knife held tightly in his right hand. The fact that Honma is accepting all of this so easily makes his blood boil even more. He should be scared! He hasn’t seen Kamiyama in nearly a decade—how naive is he to trust someone so openly just because they had grown up together?

On the other hand, the hand that’s _not_ led by psychotic resentment, Kamiyama is relieved. He’s not going to do anything bad or immoral, at least ethically. He doesn’t have to hate himself for having those obscene fantasies because Honma is going to let him live them out.

Honma’s consent completely flips the script that has played in Kamiyama’s head for years now, but it’s better than the alternative.

Kamiyama meets Honma’s eyes long enough to see a flash of the past, the sardonic expression that might be emulated on Honma’s face right now—or maybe that’s Kamiyama’s imagination. Past and present blur in Kamiyama’s reality, but it’s what Kamiyama needs to shove Honma up against his own wall, the dull side of the knife pressed against his throat as Kamiyama watches him squirm up close.

“Kamiyama,” Honma says, his voice just a whisper that seems to scream in Kamiyama’s head. “Do your worst.”

Another flash and Kamiyama pulls the knife away long enough to relocate them, grabbing Honma by the collar and shoving him into his own bedroom. Brightly colored towels adorn the dark, boring bedspread, to which Kamiyama devotes half a second of his attention before throwing Honma down on top of it.

Honma doesn’t look scared, and that makes Kamiyama even _angrier_.

He shoves the T-shirt over Honma’s head and admires the wide expanse of skin at his disposal, tightening his hand on the knife handle as he determines where to cut first. His gaze drops to the lower right side and the next flash is Misaki, wet and bleeding with a piece of shrapnel sticking out in that exact same location; Kamiyama’s already dragging the dull side above Honma’s hip before he actively knows what he’s doing.

Honma’s chest is heaving, but it’s not out of fear. His eyes are on Kamiyama, watching him attentively, and Kamiyama wonders what he sees. Honma’s reality is just as distorted as Kamiyama’s is; maybe he needs this as much as Kamiyama does. He definitely _likes_ it as much, if the bulge in his pants is any indication.

Kamiyama has thought about this moment so many times that now that it’s here, he doesn’t want to rush. Slowly, he turns the knife so that the sharp side is pressed against Honma’s skin, but he doesn’t move. It’s Honma’s trembling that creates the first prick, a single dot of blood shining from the smooth skin.

Without thinking, Kamiyama swipes it up with the pad of his fingertip and brings it to his mouth. It’s not the first time he’s tasted blood, but it’s the first time it hasn’t been his own and he feels a surge of tension that he usually equates to sexual stimulation. It has him dragging the knife higher, switching from the dull side to the sharp side when he crosses over onto the chest plate, and a thin ribbon of red appears between Honma’s pectorals.

This time, Kamiyama leans down to lick it directly. He feels Honma’s moan against his tongue, the legs beneath him falling open for Kamiyama to settle between them. All Kamiyama needs to do is scoot up a little bit, and he could rub against that bulge with his own, but he doesn’t want to do that quite yet. With the knife still in his hand, pressed to Honma’s sternum, any lapse in concentration could prove fatal.

Now that he’s actually _living_ what he’s only seen behind his eyes for years now, the last thing he wants is to kill Honma. The compulsion to hurt him is satisfied with the shallow cuts, the sharp hisses of Honma’s breath misread as pain, his arousal fueled by being the one with the power to end his life if he wanted to.

But he doesn’t want to.

Honma’s reactions ignite something deep inside Kamiyama that he wouldn’t allow to surface until right now—the need to _please_ him. Back then, all Kamiyama wanted to do was remember what he’d forgotten, for himself and for Honma. If he only he could remember, then Honma wouldn’t yell at him anymore. At least, that’s what he’d thought up until he really did remember.

That need never fully went away, though. Buried beneath all of the hatred and resentment was a boy who just wanted to make his best friend happy. In this context, that translates to making him feel good _while_ hurting him, a paradox he seems to be fulfilling with each flick of his tongue along Honma’s broken skin.

“You’re getting gentler,” Honma comments, and Kamiyama hears a sarcastic tone that isn’t there. “Has cutting me made you less angry?”

Rage fills behind of Kamiyama’s eyes, and he drops the knife to the side before he really does stab Honma in the gut. The only other way to feasibly release his aggression is to lean down and fuse their mouths together in a demanding kiss, drinking down Honma’s gasp of shock just before the other man gives it back just as hard.

With his focus elsewhere, he really does grind down against Honma, and now they’re both moaning into each other’s mouths. This must be what a dog feels like when he ruts against another, the uncontrollable urge to get friction by any means necessary. He’s only stopped by Honma’s hands shoving between them, deftly opening both of their pants and shoving down underwear to rub them together without any barriers.

Kamiyama thrusts even harder, falling out of Honma’s mouth as his lungs demand more air than he’s getting through his nose. He lands face first on Honma’s chest and feels the still-warm fluid streak his cheek, blindly turning his head to lap up what blood has formed since the last time he licked at it.

“ _Fuck_ , you have no idea what that feels like,” Honma moans, grabbing onto Kamiyama’s hips to pull him down while Honma rocks up. “Get in me, already. Do you want me to prep myself?”

Kamiyama’s fingers tense at the thought of being inside Honma, stretching him out enough to take Kamiyama’s cock, and Kamiyama pushes himself up enough to reach for the small bottle that had been set out on the nightstand.

“I’ll do it,” he says firmly.

Honma looks skeptical, but that just encourages Kamiyama more. They both manage to get out of the rest of their clothes before Kamiyama lubes three of his fingers, settling between Honma’s widespread legs while distracting them both by licking the cuts on his chest. The tangy taste of Honma's life turns Kamiyama on even more.

The first finger goes in easily, though it takes a few in and outs before he can get in another. Honma’s body is alive beneath his, hips pushing back against the intrusive touch while Honma himself can’t seem to catch his breath. Kamiyama bends his knuckles and Honma arches, letting out a moan that reverberates between Kamiyama’s ears as Kamiyama does it again and _again_ just to watch Honma writhe under his eyes.

“Does that feel good?” he asks, and Honma nods distractedly. Honma’s body opens up enough for a third finger and Kamiyama gasps at how hot and tight he is, wanting nothing more than to feel that around his cock. “Tell me how much you want me.”

The last part just comes out, Kamiyama’s brain taking a backseat to his borderline psychotic urges, but that smirk returns to Honma’s face and Kamiyama’s almost certain he’s not imagining it this time.

“Kamiyama,” Honma says clearly. “I love seeing you so raw and uninhibited like this. Fuck me like you want to.”

Kamiyama’s hand is shaking as he withdraws his fingers from Honma’s body, and he looks around for the condom that had been next to the nightstand. Honma waves something in front of his ( _marked_ ) chest and Kamiyama narrows his eyes, snatching it from Honma’s grasp and putting it on like it’s a defiant action.

Hovering over Honma’s pliant, willing body while Honma is in the most vulnerable position possible has Kamiyama overcome with everything he’s been trying to forget for ten years. Flashes of being tossed like a rag doll around the room where he’d been kept imprisoned, a younger Honma staring him down with hard eyes and unforgiving strength.

To that Honma, he buries himself with one thrust, crying out from the pressure. His body seems to move on its own, rough jerks that pull low grunts from his lungs that he didn’t allow either. His mind seems to simply be a spectator to whatever’s navigating him right now, whether it’s revenge or anger or just plain lust.

“Kamiyama,” Honma gasps, and Kamiyama doesn’t break his stride to acknowledge it. “Satoru.”

“ _Fuck_ you,” Kamiyama spits, leaning down to press his tongue into the wound on Honma’s collarbone. “You don’t get to call me that.”

“Satoru,” Honma says again, clearly ignoring him. “Feels so good.”

Kamiyama’s conflicted between shutting Honma up and hearing more praise, the cognitive dissonance more than his brain can handle right now. Ultimately, he doesn’t say anything, wholly focused on Honma’s body squeezing him on every thrust, pulling him further and further away from coherence, until there’s nothing but raw sex and everything that comes with it.

“That’s it,” Honma whispers, and Kamiyama growls against his chest. “Let it out, you can do it.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Kamiyama hisses. His palm connects with Honma’s cheek as he reacts to Honma’s condescending words, shoving his smug face to the side. “You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore.”

Honma _laughs_ and Kamiyama snaps his hips as fast as he can. It’s satisfying to hear Honma choke on his breaths, hands tightening on Kamiyama’s biceps as Kamiyama hits him somewhere that has him finally shutting his fucking mouth. One of those hands shoves between them and starts quickly pumping himself, which Kamiyama would put a stop to if he had any control at all over his body.

Instead, he moans out loud as he buries himself over and over again, racing toward the finish as fast as he can. There’s no need to make it last when he’s satisfying an urge, though he can’t say their sex is completely emotionless. Rage and resentment are emotions. So is hatred.

“Satoru,” that evil voice says again, and Kamiyama uses so much force on both of his hands that Honma will undoubtedly have bruises on his hips and face. “Just like that. I’m so close. Will you come with me?”

Kamiyama opens his mouth to say hell no, they’re not going to finish together like a pair of lovers in a romance novel, but the only thing that comes out is a long, deep groan as his body approaches its peak without warning.

“Fuck, yes, _fuck_ ,” Honma gasps, his own body jerking as he fists himself off as fast as Kamiyama fucks him. “I’m gonna come.”

Orgasm crashes over Kamiyama like the words were a direct command. Kamiyama would be much more upset about it if it didn’t feel so goddamn good, an explosion of both his mind and body that seems to be emulated beneath him as Honma comes on his chest.

Consciousness feels amazing, much better than anything Kamiyama has experienced lately. He slowly pulls out and stares down at Honma, who is still heaving and staring up at him through narrow slits in his eyes. Come mixes with the blood smeared on his chest and that has to sting, made worse by Kamiyama’s tongue darting down to lick it _all_ up.

“God, that hurts,” Honma hisses, then laughs as he threads his fingers through Kamiyama’s damp hair. “Do you feel better?”

“Yeah,” Kamiyama replies. Ironically, his mind is as blank as when he’d lost his memory, but he’s not nearly as scared.

“Do you still want to hurt me?” Honma asks.

“Yeah.”

Honma’s chuckle vibrates Kamiyama’s tongue. “Good.”

At least with Honma being the one sporting the lingering marks of their actions, he can’t switch their memories this time.


End file.
